It comes before the Fall
by Phantom Shyraz
Summary: (Poirot Cafe Super Short) The need for coffee could not overwrite the pride in his heart and in the end it is the body that suffers. -ONESHOT-
**-It Comes Before the Fall-**

Disclaimer: The works of Detective Conan belongs to Gosho Aoyama-sensei.

A/N: Written for Poirot Cafe SuperShort Contest.

Theme: Pride

* * *

Conan stared at _that_ particular corner with intense dislike. He refused to acknowledge _its_ existence. Neither would he voice out his request. He refused to stoop so low. He looked around the apartment for resources and other methods. He had to get to that door! It holds the escape he needs!

He was not left with many choices. There was not much he could work with. If he was back Home, he would have access to the library and a whole host of materials. But then again, if he was back Home, he would not be in this predicament. Here, he only had the odd manila folders, a small bundle of newspaper (mostly the horse racing section), and rubbish to be recycled. Chained as he is to his current situation, he refused to bow down to _it_. He would rather die than have anything to do with _it_.

He tried stretching, extending his limbs to the fullest. But his fingers barely made it half way. He suddenly remembered that case with the writer and bank robbery. The creative use of materials on hand without anyone realizing its connection. He knew he could do this. He gave _it_ a smirk, as though telling _it_ that his intelligence can overcome this without _its_ help. But first he had to make the calculations.

A quick survey around the dimly lit room, he took stock of what could be used without raising too much suspicion. In his state, he needed to be careful in choosing his materials. He could not go for the manila folders as it would be detrimental to his cause. He estimates there are about three days worth of newspaper and a days worth of rubbish that is scheduled to be recycled. He only has a short time frame to work in without being noticed, fifteen minutes at best, so there needs to be as few modifications as possible.

Factoring the distance, his weight and the weight of layering, he set about his construct. Carefully, he placed one part on top of another, maintaining the delicate balance of weight. He can see he is getting closer to his goal to his door to escape. He tested his construct first, gingerly placing one foot on top of the lowest layer. It wobbled slightly but still holding strong. He then placed his weight on it, still holding up. He turned back to look at _it_ and gave _it_ a smirk of triumph, as though saying 'I've bested you'. _It_ did not reply, of course, as _it_ is merely an observer in this. _It_ is not allowed to act until called upon, as dictated by _its_ owner.

With great care, Conan placed both feet onto his construct, it held up under his weight. He had a sudden urge to cry out in victory, but he knew that would alert the rest of the occupants of his whereabouts and his actions. To ensure his complete success, he must be stealthy and cunning. He must not yield to _it_ even if _it_ can offer help to his need for escape. No, _it_ must not be touched.

'So close.' He thought to himself as he stretched out, fingers barely touching the door handle. He was fortunate that it was not one of those that carries a lock. But if the rest of the occupants knew, especially _her_ , no doubt a lock will be added just to make sure he would be kept away from his escape. He turned back to look at _it_ , struggling in his mind whether to take _its_ offer. He knew _it_ was mocking his efforts but he is unwilling to give _it_ the satisfaction of maybe winning over him. He must persevere, keep going in his course to prove to _it_ that he does not need _its_ help.

Just as he tiptoed on his construct, fingers managed to curl around the handle, his construct gave way and collapsed. His kiddy fingers are unable to support his weight and he is forced to let go and tumble with his construct. His fall made spectacular noise, drawing the occupants of the apartment from whatever they were doing. _It_ stood there, waiting and observing, mocking and silently laughing at Conan's amateurish attempt. _It_ knew that one day, Conan would any down to submission, that he would be humbled into taking _its_ offer. Until then, _it_ will continue to stay there go that corner.

Conan scowled. Defeated. But still tried to hold his head up high. Not willing to admit his fall. He heard footsteps coming his way, but he had no more opportunities. He wasted them all just because of his own pride.

"Mou Conan-kun, what were you doing?" She asked, hands on hips as she shook her head. The empty cans were strewn on the floor, the previously tied up newspaper bundles were messed up, and the manila folders' contents were now exposed with the attached crime scene photos and documents laid out for the world to see.

"Gomen Ran-neechan." Conan had on choice but to act submitted.

"If you wanted to get something from the top cupboards, use the stepstool next time." She looked up at the opened cupboard door and peered inside looking at the cans of powdered coffee, boxes of tea, and the odd packet of hot chocolate. "Did you want to make a drink? Perhaps hot chocolate?" She offer her help.

"No thanks Ran-neechan." He turned away with a last longing look at the silver cans inside the cupboard. He then glared at the stepstool before walking away with his head hung low. He would get his coffee fix next time. And hopefully his pride will not get in the way of it.

 **-End-**


End file.
